Looking the Other Way
by merduff
Summary: Five times Kutner and Wilson saw each other outside of work. Written for Kutner Fest at kutner love. Spoilers for season 5.


**1) People Are People**

Kutner hadn't expected to be fired in the first week of his new job. Technically, he supposed, he hadn't even made it to the first day, but he was working, and he thought he was getting paid, so it was a job, even if he was sharing it with thirty other people. Or twenty-five. He'd lost count of how many candidates House had fired already. All he knew was that he hadn't even made it into the top ten, which really sucked.

It wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to him -- he'd gotten that over with when he was six, he hoped -- but it was definitely the worst thing that had happened to him that year. So he stopped at the first coffee shop he passed outside the hospital and bought a mocha frappe to cheer himself up. Chocolate and coffee and whipped cream could make anything better.

He recognized the man in line behind him as the doctor who had been sitting with House in the cafeteria earlier. Wilson, someone had said. Head of oncology. When he noticed Kutner looking at him, he smiled and held out his hand.

"James Wilson," he said. His grip was the perfect pressure, solid but not overpowering, "You must be one of the poor suckers that House has roped into the crazy rodeo."

"Lawrence Kutner." He smiled ruefully. "Also known as 6."

"I take it from your expression -- and the fact that you're not running around the hospital doing unnecessary tests or hygiene experiments -- that you're the latest casualty in House's not so-secret desire to be Donald Trump." Wilson leaned in conspiratorially. "It's the hair. He's jealous."

Kutner tried to imagine House with an outrageous head of hair and failed. "He fired me for telling him that 24 was keeping patient notes."

"And not for setting your patient on fire. Interesting." Wilson obviously knew everything that was going on with their supposedly secret patient. "House hates tattletales."

"That's what he said." Kutner should have talked to Wilson before. He could have used some inside information. "I just wish I'd had more of a chance to prove myself to him."

Wilson broke off part of his muffin and offered it to Kutner. "For what it's worth, I think you're exactly the kind of doctor he'd want on his team. And not just because having you on the payroll would give Cuddy an ulcer." He cocked his head to one side. "Are you saving it as a souvenir? Or did you enter a road race?"

Kutner realized that he was still wearing his number. "I guess there's no real reason to keep it." He started to pull it off, but Wilson shook his head.

"Nothing wrong with a souvenir." Wilson took his espresso from the barista and edged over to the milk and sugar station. "I wish I had some parting words of wisdom for you, but House says I'm only good for platitudes." He didn't seem particularly insulted by that. Kutner supposed that being House's friend made him immune to ordinary insults. "Look on the bright side." He gestured to the counter, where Kutner's mocha frappe was ready. "The day's not a complete loss."

Kutner took a sip and had to admit he did feel better. It was hard to stay unhappy with a mouthful of whipped cream. "That's not a platitude," he protested. "I need something empty and trite to go with my caffeinated sugar high."

Wilson just raised his eyebrows and stirred a ridiculous amount of sugar into his coffee. "How about 'A frown is just a smile turned upside down'?"

Kutner's mother used to say the same thing. When he was little, he'd tried standing on his head in front of her full-length mirror to see if she was right, but it didn't work because his nose and eyes were in the wrong place, and he kept falling over. "Does that mean a smile is an upside-down frown?"

Wilson frowned upside down. "Maybe. Or maybe it just means that things change if you look at them in a different way. House may hate tattletales, but he loves people who think creatively."

"House fired me."

"House fired 6," Wilson said pointedly.

Kutner blinked, looked down at the number hanging around his neck, and saw it in a different way. "But he didn't fire 9." He took off the number and re-pinned the string on the bottom. It was worth a shot. The worst that could happen was that House would just fire him again. But sometimes good things happened the second time around.

Wilson glanced at his watch. "I'd better go. I've got a full afternoon. Patients to see. Mind games to play on House. Thank god for coffee." He capped his cup and was out the door before Kutner could properly thank him.

That was all right. With any luck he'd have a chance later.

**

* * *

**

2) Friday I'm in Love

Kutner was a man of simple tastes when it came to food, but he'd learned that if the way to a man's heart was through his stomach, the way into a woman's bed was through a bottle of Burgundy and a Michelin-starred restaurant. He was hoping to seal the deal with the paediatric fellow he'd been dating, which meant a step up from burgers and beer at the closest pub. Fortunately, Taub knew all the best restaurants between Philadelphia and New York.

The evening went well, at first. Taub had called in a favour and gotten him a table for two at the last minute. The restaurant was classy without being intimidating; the service attentive, but not overbearing. They both managed to arrive relatively on time, and the conversation over drinks was relaxed and comfortable. But before they could place their dinner orders, one of their pagers went off.

Kutner instinctively reached for his waist, but they didn't currently have a patient, and for once his lunatic boss wasn't ruining his social life on a whim.

"Patient emergency," his date said apologetically. "I have to go."

A patient emergency in paediatrics could be anything from a code to a tantrum, but Kutner understood. He was glad, though, that they hadn't had a chance to order. "Rain check," he said. "Maybe we can get together on the weekend."

"I'm on call," she said apologetically. "But let's touch base in a couple of days and synchronize our schedules." She pulled out her wallet to pay for her drink, but he shook his head.

"I've got it. You just get back to your patient." He stood to help her on with her coat and gave her a quick kiss. "Call me," he said, though he had a feeling this was one deal that would remain unsealed. He watched her leave, and then sighed and sat back down. He didn't have to be anywhere in a hurry, so at least he could finish his drink.

With nothing else to occupy his attention, he glanced around the room. It was fairly full for a weekday night, mostly couples out for a romantic meal, but there was a large table by the window that looked like an office party. House would never let them have a staff party, but maybe he could arrange something outside of work. Not a dinner -- that was too formal -- but drinks after work could be fun. He knew a great place that served suicide wings.

A couple got up to leave, clearing the sightline to the table behind them, and Kutner slid down low in his chair. Amber Volakis was sitting directly across the room from him. She was leaning forward, giving her full attention to her companion. Something he said made her throw back her head and laugh, and Kutner admired the long line of her neck.

Kutner debated going over to say hello, but there was something familiar about her companion's gestures, and he held back. Then the man turned his head slightly, and Kutner wished he had a transporter so that he could beam away immediately. The last person -- or maybe the second-to-last person -- he had expected to see making Amber laugh was James Wilson. But the man who leaned across the table to give her a quick kiss was undeniably House's best friend. That was either the best or the worst piece of gossip Kutner had discovered in his entire life.

But before he could signal the waiter for the cheque, Amber stood up, gesturing towards the restrooms. A moment later her eyes locked on him, and Kutner froze. But she just smiled and said something that made Wilson shake his head, and then she strode towards him. There was no escape.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you're not here as House's spy."

Kutner kind of missed her bluntness. Except when it was directed at him. "You're here with Wilson? On a date?" It shouldn't be that surprising. Wilson was an attractive man, Amber had the best set of legs on the Eastern Seaboard, and they were both intelligent, driven individuals. But it was like putting a Romulan and a Klingon together, with only slightly less chance of starting an inter-galactic war. "So when you told me you'd just started seeing someone, you were talking about Wilson?"

"Did House hire you so you could spend all day stating the obvious?" Amber replied. "Because I know how much he loves that."

Kutner was willing to be insulted by House on a daily basis, but he wasn't about to take it from someone House had fired. "And I know how much he's going to freak out when he finds out you've wormed your way into his best friend's life."

"Let him freak out," Amber said. "Let him throw temper tantrums, hurl thunderbolts from the heavens, and act like the selfish, egocentric ass that he is. There's nothing he can do to me now that I can't handle."

Kutner thought that was probably true. Amber had been devastated when she'd lost the game, and he'd glimpsed something more than the cut-throat bitch she'd tried to be, but when he'd seen her a few days later and steeled himself to ask her out, she'd been back to her self-confident, overbearing self. He'd thought it was because she'd gotten over her disappointment. Now he wondered if it was because she'd found a new outlet for her wounded pride. "You're going to punish House for firing you by taking away his only friend," he said.

"That would be a brilliant deduction, if it were possible or true." Her mouth quirked upwards in an amused smile. "You can believe me or not, but I'm glad House fired me."

Kutner didn't believe her. "You wanted that job more than all of us combined. You screwed people over without a second thought and considered it a good day's work."

"Whatever I did before was part of the game. I played hard and I played to win, and I wasn't interested in anybody else's feelings. I was there for a job, not to make friends." She glanced across the room at Wilson, who was watching them warily. Her expression softened, and she gestured for him to join them. "But I'm not playing now. The only thing this has to do with House is proximity."

When she looked back at Kutner, however, any hint of softness was gone. "And if I find out you told him about us, I'll hack into your computer and get you banned from every gaming board and geek forum on the Internet."

Now Kutner believed her. It wasn't worth making an enemy out of Amber, especially since House was just as likely to shoot the messenger as reward him. "You do know that if you hurt Wilson, House will crush you."

"If I hurt Wilson, then I'll deserve whatever House does to me."

Wilson wound his way towards them. "I assume Amber has threatened you with a fate worse than death if you tell House you saw us together," he said lightly, but Kutner wasn't fooled. House would crush him, Amber would destroy him, but Wilson would ruin his life so subtly and politely that Kutner would thank him for the privilege.

"My lips are sealed," he promised. He wouldn't have to keep the secret long. House would sniff the relationship out sooner or later. Wilson was too happy not to raise his suspicions.

"Are you here by yourself?" Wilson asked, apparently reassured. "Or are you waiting for someone?"

"My date had to leave," Kutner replied, still a little chagrined. "Paged into work. I was just going to pay for our drinks and leave."

"You haven't eaten? Why don't you join us? We've only just ordered."

The invitation appeared to be genuine, but Kutner hesitated, waiting for Amber to object.

She just rolled her eyes. "Wilson's a Jewish mother," she said fondly. "He'll fret if he thinks you went home hungry."

"I can just grab a pizza."

Wilson looked horrified. "You can't come here and not eat. The food is fantastic. You can eat pizza any time." He signalled a waiter. "Could you transfer this gentleman's check to our table? He'll be joining us for dinner."

Amber kissed Wilson on the cheek. "I'll be back in a minute. Let Wilson order for you," she told Kutner, tapping him on the shoulder lightly as she passed. "You may not trust his taste in friends and lovers, but you won't be disappointed by his taste in food."

Wilson watched her walk away, a dopey grin on his face, but then he shook himself visibly and gestured for Kutner to follow him to the table. "You have to try the scallops wrapped in octopus bacon. And the sablefish is out of this world."

Octopus bacon sounded like it could be amazing or a train wreck. Kutner ordered the scallops without even looking at the menu. "How long do you think you can keep him from finding out?"

Wilson didn't even pretend not to know what he was talking about. "Long enough, I hope."

"Long enough for what?"

Wilson smiled, but there was sadness behind the smile. "Long enough for her to decide that I'm worth it."

He was facing away from the restrooms, so he didn't see Amber returning, but Kutner did. He'd always thought she was attractive, in a dangerous kind of way. Now she was radiant, and it was all directed at Wilson. Kutner wondered if a woman would ever look at him that way.

He smiled at Wilson, pushing back a pang of jealousy. "I think she already has."

* * *

**3) Bizarre Love Triangle**

At least once a day, House decided their patient had cancer, or sarcoidosis, or some other condition that Wilson had a previously unknown expertise in, and darted across the balcony or down the hall for a second opinion.

"We ruled out cancer yesterday," Taub complained when House disappeared into Wilson's office after a particularly frustrating differential.

"He's not going there for a diagnosis," Kutner replied. "He's going there to think." They could lob ideas at House all they wanted, but more often than not it was a casual, unrelated comment that triggered an epiphany in House. It could happen with anyone, but Kutner had lost track of the number of times he'd seen House talking with Wilson, only to spin away suddenly and bark out a diagnosis and treatment plan.

When he'd asked, Wilson had told him that more often than not they weren't even talking about the case when House had his epiphany. Kutner supposed that made sense: House's subconscious kept working away at the puzzle while the rest of his mind relaxed with hospital gossip and trivial banter. But every once in a while, something would slip between the layers, and the final connection would be made.

At first, he'd wondered why House even needed a team -- other than to do the lab work and tests that he didn't trust anyone else to do -- but he realized their role in the differentials was just as important. They were his eyes and ears on the scene, even if they didn't always see or hear the same thing.

And that was when he remembered the flyer he'd seen when they were searching the patient's dorm room. "I'll be back in a minute," he said abruptly and hurried to Wilson's office. House would be pissed off at the interruption, but Kutner knew that if he waited until later he'd forget again and then it would be too late. Still, he hesitated before he knocked on the door and stepped inside.

House was slouched on Wilson's sofa, watching him do paperwork, but he turned to glare at Kutner. "Did you hear anybody ask you to come in?" he snapped. "Unless you have new test results, scram."

"He knocked, which is more than some people do," Wilson said. "Have you come to drag House back to your differential?"

It occurred to Kutner that maybe he should do exactly that, but House didn't look like he'd come up with any crazy connections, and they'd run out of ideas for him to shoot down. "Not yet," he said. "I just wanted to ask you something. You're a fan of classic movies, right?" he asked, gesturing at the posters of _Vertigo_ and _Touch of Evil_ on the wall.

House rolled his eyes, the way he did every time somebody made a comment that was painfully obvious, even if it was only obvious to him. Wilson was better at hiding his annoyance, but then anyone who'd been friends with House for years had to have superhero patience. He just smiled and nodded, assuming that it had been a rhetorical question.

"There's a Kurosawa retrospective at the campus theatre this week," Kutner forged ahead. "They're showing _Rashomon_ tonight, and I thought you might be interested."

"Are you asking Wilson on a date?" House demanded, sitting up and looking at Kutner with the kind of interest that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "Because it's Wednesday, and I get Wilson on Wednesdays. If you want a piece of him, pick one of the Bitch's days."

"What time is the movie?" Wilson asked. "What?" he said, when House grunted in protest. "I've always wanted to see _Rashomon_."

"I'm not wasting a Wednesday on a movie. There's only so many times I can listen to you blather on about directorial vision and cinematography before I need to puncture my eardrums."

"Kurosawa was famous for his frame wipes," Wilson said. "Lucas used a modified version in _Star Wars_."

Kutner nodded eagerly. "R2-D2 and C-3PO were based on the peasants in _The Hidden Fortress_."

"Is this some kind of geek foreplay?" House asked. "Because I'm telling Amber you're cheating on us."

"Go ahead," Wilson replied, putting his phone on speaker and dialling a number.

"_Amber Volakis_."

"Hey, it's me." Wilson smirked at House. "I'm going to a movie with Kutner tonight. We're going to share popcorn and talk film studies, and it's going to be hot."

"_Don't you have a play date with House?_"

"House is welcome to come along," Wilson said, as House made retching sounds. "But he's having trouble with the concept of sharing, so he'll have to get his own popcorn."

"You don't have a problem with him seeing someone else?" House demanded. "Because it's a slippery slope with Wilson. It starts with a movie and ends with lawyers."

Kutner wondered how he'd managed to get caught in their web of craziness. He'd only wanted to tell Wilson about the movie, not become the rope in House and Amber's tug-of-war. He wasn't even planning on going to the movie himself; he was just passing along information that he thought would interest Wilson. But if he didn't show now, House would think he'd bailed because of what he'd said. It was practically a dare, and Kutner never backed down from a dare.

"_I don't have a problem with him seeing another_ man._ If he went to a movie with Thirteen, that might be different_."

"If I went to a movie with Thirteen, you'd castrate me in my sleep," Wilson pointed out.

"_No, I wouldn't_." Amber sounded far too innocent. "_I'd wake you up first_." She laughed. "_You boys have fun tonight. And if you send him home drunk again, House, I'll have a problem with both of you._"

House just smirked as Wilson disconnected the call, but Kutner squeezed his thighs together sympathetically. "I think that's my cue to go," he said, edging towards the door.

"Not so fast," House retorted. "You started this game; you don't get to pick up your ball and go home." He frowned and his eyes lost focus. "The patient first started complaining of dizziness when he was playing frisbee."

"Ultimate," Kutner replied. "It's a team sport. Invented at a high school in New Jersey. But it's light contact only, so someone would have noticed if he'd been hit in the head."

"More importantly his other symptoms would have something to do with a head injury. The dizziness is more likely related to drinking too much the night before, skipping breakfast, and being too much of a prima donna to sub off." House pursed his lips, still thinking. "Come on, wookie. It's time to interrogate the witnesses and piece together the truth from their lies."

Kutner trailed obediently after House, but paused when Wilson called out his name.

"Thanks for the heads up about the movie," he said. "And don't worry. I know you weren't actually asking me to go with you."

"No, it's cool," Kutner said. "House will probably have us working around the clock until we find the answer, but maybe I'll see you there."

But House had his final epiphany in the afternoon, inspired, he claimed, by the way Wilson choked on his drink when House made an "innocent" comment about Cuddy's décolletage. The patient was still critical, but Taub drew the first monitoring shift, so Kutner was free and clear to go to the movie. House, though, disappeared into Wilson's office at the stroke of five, and the two men left shortly after.

Kutner assumed that House would get his way, as usual, and drag Wilson to a bar or out bowling or whatever else middle-aged department heads did in their spare time. It was hard to believe that those two had anything in common, but Kutner had stopped being surprised by anything about House after the first day of fellowship boot camp, and he'd learned that there was far more to Wilson than the surface suggested. Anybody who could handle House and Amber simultaneously had to have nerves of steel or a strong streak of masochism.

He had several hours to kill before it was his turn to monitor the patient, and a Japanese murder mystery was as good a way as any to spend them. He didn't mind sitting by himself. But by the time he finally got to the campus centre, it was just a few minutes before show time and the screening was sold out. Disappointed, he was about to leave in search of a different distraction for the next few hours when he heard his name. He turned and saw Wilson hurrying towards him.

"You made it," he said. "I got you a ticket, just in case, since it looked like it was going to sell out. We'd better hurry if we want to get food." He handed Kutner a ticket stub and led him to the theatre door.

"Where's House?" Kutner asked, scanning the lobby for someone wielding a big stick and a bad attitude.

"He's watching the hockey game in the bar. I'm meeting him there after the movie." Wilson handed his ticket to the usher and headed for the concession. "He said he didn't want to subject himself to crappy translations, or worse, bad dubbing."

"He speaks Japanese?"

"His father was stationed in Japan when he was a teenager."

It wasn't exactly an answer, but Kutner had heard House pepper his conversations with snippets from a half dozen languages, and he couldn't imagine House spending any amount of time in a country without picking up the language. "How badly is he going to torture me for telling you about the movie?" he asked, grabbing a package of Twizzlers and a chocolate bar.

"I've got it," Wilson said. "You want something to drink?"

Kutner figured that meant House was going to make his life miserable for the foreseeable future. He might as well take advantage of Wilson's generosity. "I'll have a Coke."

"Don't worry about House," Wilson said, grabbing a box of Junior Mints for himself. "I told him I'd break curfew tonight, which will make him think he's won this round."

"You have a curfew? Does she ground you if you come home late?" Sometimes Kutner said things that he wished later he hadn't. Stream of consciousness worked well in differentials -- not so well in social gatherings.

But Wilson just grinned. "Oh, she grounds me, and then some. But I called to negotiate an extra hour out, on the condition that I stay sober and we both take the morning off." He looked a little too pleased with himself for a grown man who had to ask permission to stay out late. "Amber does yoga on Wednesdays," he confided.

Kutner imagined all that long-legged limberness waiting impatiently for Wilson to get home. He wouldn't delay an extra minute, much less a full hour. "You must really want to see this movie," he said.

"I want a lot of things," Wilson replied. "And if I can maintain the balance of power, I might even get some of them."

But Kutner had been a good history student, and he remembered that the 19th century European balance of power had collapsed under the weight of entangling alliances, leaving 16 million dead and a generation shattered. He wished Wilson better luck.

**

* * *

**

4) Faded Flowers

It had been a crappy day. Their patient had lived, but they'd had to amputate his leg because the diagnosis had come too late. Between House's simmering anger, their patient's stunned despair, and his own guilt that he hadn't caught something – anything -- that would have led them to the answer sooner, Kutner was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He just wanted to grab a bite to eat, go home, and curl up in front of the television until he fell asleep.

But Princeton was a small town dressed up in an Ivy League gown, and it was almost impossible to go anywhere without running into a friend or acquaintance. Still, the last person he expected to see in the noodle house near the university was James Wilson.

It had been three months since Amber's death and a month since Wilson had quit his job and threatened to move out of state. He hadn't, apparently. He hadn't even moved out of town, unless he liked those noodles so much he was willing to travel for them. They were good -- hot and spicy and comforting -- but not that good. Kutner wouldn't go more than one or two miles out his way for them.

Kutner thought about leaving before Wilson saw him. All he wanted was to pick up his takeout container of noodle soup and escape. He didn't want to talk to anyone he knew, and he really didn't want to talk to someone who didn't even want to be known any more. Wilson had walked out of House's life, which Kutner could sort of understand, but it left them without any kind of filter for House's insanity.

Besides, Wilson was gone, but House was still there, and that made it pretty clear where Kutner's loyalty lay.

Wilson was at the cash register paying and hadn't seen him yet, so Kutner stepped out of sight and slowly worked his way to the back of the restaurant. With luck, Wilson would get his food, leave, and Kutner could retrieve his order and avoid a confrontation. He picked up a campus paper and pretended to read it while he waited, but he couldn't resist studying Wilson from around the curl of the broadsheet.

He hadn't seen Wilson since the day he'd left the hospital for the last time, and he'd barely seen him during the few days Wilson had returned from his leave to wrap up his administrative duties. He hadn't talked to Wilson since Amber's funeral, when he'd mumbled words of sympathy that gave neither of them any comfort. Wilson had been surrounded by family and friends, but Kutner thought he had never seen anyone so alone before.

Foreman had talked to Wilson a couple of times since he'd left, Kutner knew, but hadn't said anything, either deferring to House's feelings or Wilson's privacy. But Kutner had overheard Cameron telling Chase that she didn't think Wilson was coping as well as he wanted everyone to believe.

Kutner knew Wilson wasn't coping at all if he thought cutting House out of his life would solve anything. It wouldn't bring Amber back. Nothing, Kutner knew, could do that. All it had accomplished was to make House even more unreasonable than usual, which made life miserable for everyone who didn't have the luxury of running away from their problems.

Then Wilson turned around, holding a plastic bag of takeout food, and even from across the room Kutner could see that running away hadn't made Wilson any less miserable. He lowered the newspaper and stood up, feeling like a jerk for trying to avoid him. Wilson saw him, and a smile crossed his face, so brief and tentative that Kutner knew it was unfeigned. He let Wilson walk over to him, though, unsure how completely the other man wanted to cut his ties.

"It's all right if you don't want to talk to me," Wilson said, as he drew near. He was dressed in a green polo shirt and jeans, and he looked impossibly young. "I just thought I'd say hello and see how you were doing."

"I think you stole my line," Kutner said. He looked closer at Wilson and revised his earlier opinion. The thinly disguised pain in his eyes was too old to calculate. "Why don't you grab a seat? I'll just pick up my order and then we can catch up." He didn't wait for an answer, afraid that Wilson would refuse, and ashamed that part of him still wanted Wilson to just leave. He picked up his food at the front and grabbed a soda for both of them, remembering the movie they'd seen together. He didn't think he'd ever paid Wilson back for the ticket.

"Why did you think I didn't want to talk to you?" he asked, handing a drink to Wilson.

Wilson smiled ruefully. "Because I'm the guy that walked away and left everybody else to deal with the fallout. And because you snuck around to the back of the restaurant and tried to hide behind the _Daily Princetonian_."

Kutner flushed and looked away. Of course someone used to dealing with House would notice suspicious behaviour, especially now that House had a private investigator on his payroll. "That was stupid of me. I just --" He didn't know what to say that wouldn't make him look like more of an idiot, or worse, make Wilson feel rejected.

"You didn't want to deal with my issues," Wilson finished for him. "That's okay with me. All I ever seem to talk about is my issues. Even I get sick of hearing myself. I can only imagine what it's like for other people."

"You know, apologizing for your grief isn't the healthiest way of dealing with it."

Wilson lowered his head as he opened his container of soup and a cloud of steam anointed his cheeks. "It's been nearly four months. I'd say I've been milking the bereavement thing long enough."

It sounded like something House would say. Kutner wondered if comments like that were part of the reason Wilson had walked away. Barbs sunk easier into unprotected flesh. "You can't put a time limit on experiencing that kind of loss. It gets better, but it takes time."

Wilson looked up, his expression empathetic but not confused, and Kutner knew that House had told him about his parents. He wasn't surprised. House had no qualms about sharing Taub's marital problems or Thirteen's medical condition. But aside from the occasional harmless snipe, House had left his past alone. Kutner wasn't surprised by that either.

"You loved her and anyone could see how much she loved you," he continued. "Don't you think that's worth grieving?"

Wilson blinked rapidly, and his knuckles whitened around his spoon. "I thought we weren't going to talk about this," he said roughly, managing a faint smile.

Kutner was sympathetic, but not charitable. "Is work off-limits, too? Because there's not a lot else to talk about." That wasn't entirely true, but most of the lines that intersected their lives crossed through Amber or House. "Cuddy hasn't filled your position yet. I think she's hoping you'll come to your senses and come back."

"You think I'm making a mistake," Wilson said flatly.

"I think you've compounded the loss of Amber with the loss of your best friend."

Wilson's hand jerked, splashing broth down his shirt. He swore and dabbed at the spill with a napkin, leaving a dark green smear across his chest. "What House and I have isn't friendship, it's quicksand, and we've both been sinking for years. We're better off apart." Kutner noticed that he was using the present tense. Wilson might think he was moving on, but he hadn't managed to convince his subconscious of that yet.

"Do you actually believe that? Or do you just want to believe that so you won't feel guilty about leaving him?" Kutner didn't let him answer. Wilson was too good at talking himself and others into implausible ideas. "After you left, House asked us what you did for him."

Wilson sputtered through a mouthful of soup. "What I did for him?" He shook his head and suddenly deflated. "If he had to ask, then obviously none of it really mattered to him."

That wasn't the reaction Kutner had been expecting. And yet it gave him more hope that Wilson might not be as determined to move on as he claimed. "I told him you paid for his lunch, liked monster trucks, and were his conscience."

Wilson laughed bitterly. "That's about it, isn't it? Not much to say for a friendship. He can cadge food from anybody, he's already taken Cameron to see monster trucks once, and there's a waiting list of people trying to be his conscience."

"Except none of them are you," Kutner pointed out. "He went looking for someone to fit those criteria, but that's not what you really are to him. He made a joke about it, said you made him laugh on a rainy day and see colours he never knew existed, but House makes jokes about things that he's not willing to admit to in any other way. He cares about you because of who you are, not what you do for him."

"I can't --" Wilson closed his eyes and then tried again. "Amber died because she decided I _was_ worth it. House could have died because he knew that."

"Because he thought _both_ of you were worth it. Shit happens. It's the universal philosophy. You can deal with it or you can run away. But don't tell yourself that running is going to save either of you." Kutner stood up. His soup was only half-finished, but he'd lost his appetite. "I should go," he said. "It's been a long day. You look after yourself, okay?"

Wilson just nodded and held out his hand. As Kutner took it, it occurred to him that he might never see Wilson again, and he realized House wasn't the only one who was losing a friend.

When he reached the door, he looked back at the table. Wilson was stirring his soup absently, staring into space. It didn't look like he was hungry any more, either. Still, Kutner hoped that he'd left Wilson something new to chew on.

* * *

**5) What's Up**

On Thursday morning, Kutner arrived at the local diner too nervous to actually eat. He'd set the meeting early, off hospital grounds, to avoid any possibility of running into House, but still he half-expected to see his boss lurking behind a tree or slouched in the front seat of a nondescript car. He'd tried not to raise any suspicions, but House was like a canary when it came to suspicious behaviour -- there only had to be the slightest whiff before he raised the alarm.

Kutner glanced around the diner, clutching the file close to his chest. Wilson was sitting in a booth in the corner, sipping a mug of coffee. "Good," Kutner said, slipping in across from him. "We can be private."

"I assumed that's why you asked to meet me outside the hospital," Wilson said. He frowned, staring apprehensively at the file Kutner was still guarding closely. "Oh god," he said. "House killed somebody, and you need me to bury the body."

"You'd do that?" Kutner asked, forgetting why he was there for a moment.

"Well, not literally," Wilson replied. "It's surprisingly hard to get rid of a dead body, even in New Jersey."

It took a moment for Kutner to realize that he was joking. He still had a hard time reading Wilson, but then so did House, and he'd been practising for years. "We don't have a patient right now, dead or alive," he said. "But I'll take that under advisement for the future." Not that he needed that suggestion. Wilson's office was always the first stop when House was about to go off the rails.

"What's the big secret, then?" Wilson asked, leaning back into the booth.

Kutner wondered whether Wilson was trying to put him at ease or whether he was just relieved that he wasn't going to have to risk his life or livelihood for House this time. He suspected it was a little of both. "It's not a secret," he said hesitantly, nervous again. "I was just hoping you'd take a look at something for me." He pushed the file across the table before he chickened out.

Wilson glanced at it suspiciously. "It's not your resume, is it? Because no matter what he said or did, he does want you on the team. He likes the way you think. He's just not very good at expressing appreciation. Consider it an emotional allergy."

Now it was Kutner's turn to relax. "It's not about House," he said, which was only true in theory. House had a way of making everything about him. "Though I'd rather you didn't tell him about it." Just the thought of House knowing about the contents of the file made his stomach churn.

Wilson didn't touch the file. "I can promise you I won't tell him, whatever it is," he said. "But I can't promise he won't find out."

That was fair enough. Involving Wilson in anything was as good as involving House as well, even if it was involuntarily. But Wilson had kept his relationship with Amber from House for four weeks, which was about two weeks longer than Kutner had privately bet himself. "I trust you," he said, "even if I don't trust him." It wasn't even that he didn't trust House. He did, or he would if he were dying of a mysterious disease. But giving him personal information was like giving a toddler a toy drum: you couldn't expect them not to beat it to the point of insanity.

And Wilson wasn't really all that different from House, even if he presented a prettier package. Kutner stood up abruptly and grabbed the file. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have asked you here. I'm sorry."

"Kutner." Wilson's voice was amused, but firm. "Sit down."

Kutner dropped back onto the bench seat.

"Give me the file."

He shook his head. "Let's just order breakfast and talk about House. Do you think he should have stayed on the methadone?"

"You're deflecting," Wilson said. He studied Kutner and then leaned forward. "Whatever it is, we can work through it. I know some great programs." His voice was soothing, understanding, and Kutner felt some of his nervousness drain away.

"I'm already in a program," he replied. "That's why I was hoping you could look this over." He thrust the file into Wilson's hands before he chickened out again.

"You don't need me to make a referral?"

"I don't think so. A recommendation would be great, but I'm not sure it would make much of a difference." Kutner appreciated the offer, though. Wilson had been the right person to go to after all. Except Wilson was looking at him like he had a third eye -- or was House -- and Kutner reviewed the conversation. "Oh," he said, realizing where Wilson's mind had automatically gone, once potential House crises had been eliminated. "You think I have cancer." He started to laugh, which he knew was pretty inappropriate considering what Wilson did for a living, but it was nice to be reminded that there were far worse things than being embarrassed.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "I take it these aren't test results," he said, finally opening the file. He scanned the top page. "Is this a short story?" he asked. He seemed more puzzled and relieved than amused, which Kutner took as a good sign.

"I'm taking a creative writing workshop next weekend and I needed to bring something for the group to discuss," he explained. "It's just a first draft, but I wanted someone to look over it, to make sure it wasn't complete crap."

Wilson still looked puzzled. "Why me?" he asked. "I mean, I know why you wouldn't ask House. Unless this is porn, and then he'd be your go-to guy. But why not Taub? Or one of your friends?"

It was a good question, one that Kutner hadn't even considered. Wilson had been the first -- and only -- person he'd wanted to show the story. "Because you know how to tell people difficult things without making them feel bad." It was something he'd always admired in Wilson. "Besides, I know you're a department head, and I know that House has marked a six-foot circle around you, but I consider you a friend."

Wilson didn't say anything, and Kutner thought this must be one of those lines he only noticed once he'd stepped over it, but then Wilson smiled. "I'm glad," he said. "And I'd be happy to read your story." He proceeded to do just that until Kutner slapped the file closed.

"Not in front of me," he protested. "That just freaks me out."

"It shouldn't," Wilson replied. "From what I've seen so far, it's good." His smile broadened when Kutner slumped back into the bench with relief. "You've really worked yourself into a state over this, didn't you?" He signalled to the waitress, who swerved to make an immediate beeline for their table. Wilson was obviously a popular customer. "This will make you feel better. Could we get two French toast towers, Darlene?" he asked, smiling as sweetly as artificial maple syrup.

Five minutes ago, Kutner would have said he couldn't eat a bite. But when a plate criss-crossed with French toast sticks, accompanied by a side of perfectly crisped bacon, was placed in front of him, he fell on it like a pack of starving wolves. He remembered what Amber had said all those months before: Wilson's taste in food never disappointed. And in the end, his taste in lovers had been just as good. That just left friends, and while some might turn up their nose at the main selection, Kutner knew that acquired tastes were often the best.


End file.
